The Newcomes

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by William Makepeace Thackeray

can but pain her, who persists in following her when he has given his

  word of honour to avoid her, that such a man is----"

  "What, my Lord Kew?" cries Belsize, whose chest began to heave.

  "You know what," answers the other. "You know what a man is who insults a

  poor woman, and breaks his word of honour. Consider the word said, and

  act upon it as you think fit."

  "I owe you four thousand pounds, Kew," says Belsize, "and I have got four

  thousand on the bills, besides four hundred when I came out of that

  place."

  "You insult me the more," cries Kew, flashing out, "by alluding to the

  money. If you will leave this place to-morrow, well and good; if not, you

  will please to give me a meeting. Mr. Newcome will you be so kind as to

  act as my friend? We are connexions, you know, and this gentleman chooses

  to insult a lady who is about to become one of our family."

  "C'est bien, milord. Ma foi! c'est d'agir en vrai gentilhomme," says

  Florac, delighted. "Touchez-la, mon petit Kiou. Tu as du coeur. Godam!

  you are a brave! A brave fellow!" and the Viscount reached out his hand

  cordially to Lord Kew.

  His purpose was evidently pacific. From Kew he turned to the great

  guardsman, and taking him by the coat began to apostrophise him. "And

  you, mon gros," says he, "is there no way of calming this hot blood

  without a saignee? Have you a penny to the world? Can you hope to carry

  off your Chimene, O Rodrigue, and live by robbing afterwards on the great

  way? Suppose you kill ze Fazer, you kill Kiou, you kill Roostere, your

  Chimene will have a pretty moon of honey."

  "What the devil do you mean about your Chimene and your Rodrigue? Do you

  mean, Viscount----?" says Belsize, "Jack Belsize once more, and he dashed

  his hand across his eyes. Kew has riled me, and he drove me half wild. I

  ain't much of a Frenchman, but I know enough of what you said, to say

  it's true, by Jove, and that Frank Kew's a trump. That's what you mean.

  Give us your hand, Frank. God bless you, old boy; don't be too hard upon

  me, you know I'm d----d miserable, that I am. Hullo! What's this?" Jack's

  pathetic speech was interrupted at this instant, for the Vicomte de

  Florac in his enthusiasm rushed into his arms, and jumped up towards his

  face and proceeded to kiss Jack. A roar of immense laughter, as he shook

  the little Viscount off, cleared the air and ended this quarrel.

  Everybody joined in this chorus, the Frenchman with the rest, who said,

  "he loved to laugh meme when he did not know why." And now came the

  moment of the evening, when Clive, according to Lord Kew's saying,

  behaved so well and prevented Barnes from incurring a great danger. In

  truth, what Mr. Clive did or said amounted exactly to nothing. What

  moments can we not all remember in our lives when it would have been so

  much wittier and wiser to say and do nothing?

  Florac, a very sober drinker like most of his nation, was blessed with a

  very fine appetite, which, as he said, renewed itself thrice a day at

  least. He now proposed supper, and poor Jack was for supper too, and

  especially more drink, champagne and seltzer-water; "bring champagne and

  seltzer-water, there is nothing like it." Clive could not object to this

  entertainment, which was ordered forthwith, and the four young men sat

  down to share it.

  Whilst Florac was partaking of his favourite ecrevisses, giving not only

  his palate but his hands, his beard, his mustachios and cheeks a full

  enjoyment of the sauce which he found so delicious, he chose to revert

  now and again to the occurrences which had just passed, and which had

  better perhaps have been forgotten, and gaily rallied Belsize upon his

  warlike humour. "If ze petit pretendu was here, what would you have done

  wiz him, Jac? You would croquer im, like zis ecrevisse, hein? You would

  mache his bones, hein?"

  Jack, who had forgotten to put the seltzer-water into his champagne,

  writhed at the idea of having Barnes Newcome before him, and swore, could

  he but see Barnes, he would take the little villain's life.

  And but for Clive, Jack might actually have beheld his enemy. Young Clive

  after the meal went to the window with his eternal cigar, and of course

  began to look at That Other window. Here, as he looked, a carriage had at

  the moment driven up. He saw two servants descend, then two gentlemen,

  and then he heard a well-known voice swearing at the couriers. To his

  credit be it said, he checked the exclamation which was on his lips, and

  when he came back to the table did not announce to Kew or his right-hand

  neighbour Belsize, that his uncle and Barnes had arrived. Belsize, by

  this time, had had quite too much wine: when the viscount went away, poor

  Jack's head was nodding; he had been awake all the night before;

  sleepless for how many nights previous. He scarce took any notice of the

  Frenchman's departure.

  Lord Kew remained. He was for taking Jack to walk, and for reasoning with

  him further, and for entering more at large than perhaps he chose to do

  before the two others upon this family dispute. Clive took a moment to

  whisper to Lord Kew, "My uncle and Barnes are arrived, don't let Belsize

  go out; for goodness' sake let us get him to bed."

  And lest the poor fellow should take a fancy to visit his mistress by

  moonlight, when he was safe in his room Lord Kew softly turned the key in

  Mr. Jack's door.

  CHAPTER XXX

  A Retreat

  As Clive lay awake revolving the strange incidents of the day, and

  speculating upon the tragedy in which he had been suddenly called to take

  a certain part, a sure presentiment told him that his own happy holiday

  was come to an end, and that the clouds and storm which he had always

  somehow foreboded, were about to break and obscure this brief pleasant

  period of sunshine. He rose at a very early hour, flung his windows open,

  looked out no doubt towards those other windows in the neighbouring

  hotel, where he may have fancied he saw a curtain stirring, drawn by a

  hand that every hour now he longed more to press. He turned back into his

  chamber with a sort of groan, and surveyed some of the relics of the last

  night's little feast, which still remained on the table. There were the

  champagne-flasks which poor Jack Belsize had emptied, the tall

  seltzer-water bottle, from which the gases had issued and mingled with

  the hot air of the previous night's talk; glasses with dregs of liquor,

  ashes of cigars, or their black stumps, strewing the cloth; the dead men,

  the burst guns of yesterday's battle. Early as it was, his neighbour J. J

  had been up before him. Clive could hear him singing as was his wont when

  the pencil went well, and the colours arranged themselves to his

  satisfaction over his peaceful and happy work.

  He pulled his own drawing-table to the window, set out his board and

  colour-box, filled a great glass from the seltzer-water bottle, drank

  some of the vapid liquor, and plunged his brushes in the rest, with which

  he began to paint. The work all went wrong. There was no song for him

  over his labour; he dashed brush and board aside a
fter a while, opened

  his drawers, pulled out his portmanteaus from under the bed, and fell to

  packing mechanically. J. J. heard the noise from the next room, and came

  in smiling, with a great painting-brush in his mouth.

  "Have the bills in, J. J.," says Clive. "Leave your cards on your

  friends, old boy; say good-bye to that pretty little strawberry-girl

  whose picture you have been doing; polish it off to-day, and dry the

  little thing's tears. I read P.P.C. in the stars last night, and my

  familiar spirit came to me in a vision, and said, 'Clive, son of Thomas,

  put thy travelling-boots on.'"

  Lest any premature moralist should prepare to cry fie against the good,

  pure-minded little J. J., I hereby state that his strawberry-girl was a

  little village maiden of seven years old, whose sweet little picture a

  bishop purchased at the next year's Exhibition.

  "Are you going already?" cries J. J., removing the bit out of his mouth.

  "I thought you had arranged parties for a week to come, and that the

  princesses and the duchesses had positively forbidden the departure of

  your lordship!"

  "We have dallied at Capua long enough," says Clive; "and the legions have

  the route for Rome. So wills Hannibal, the son of Hasdrubal."

  "The son of Hasdrubal is quite right," his companion answered; "the

  sooner we march the better. I have always said it; I will get all the

  accounts in. Hannibal has been living like a voluptuous Carthaginian

  prince. One, two, three champagne-bottles! There will be a deuce of a

  bill to pay."

  "Ah! there will be a deuce of a bill to pay," says Clive, with a groan

  whereof J. J. knew the portent; for the young men had the confidence of

  youth one in another. Clive was accustomed to pour out his full heart to

  any crony who was near him; and indeed had he spoken never a word, his

  growing attachment to his cousin was not hard to see. A hundred times,

  and with the glowing language and feelings of youth, with the fire of his

  twenty years, with the ardour of a painter, he had spoken of her and

  described her. Her magnanimous simplicity, her courage and lofty scorn,

  her kindness towards her little family, her form, her glorious colour of

  rich carnation and dazzling white, her queenly grace when quiescent and

  in motion, had constantly formed the subjects of this young gentleman's

  ardent eulogies. As he looked at a great picture or statue, as the Venus

  of Milo, calm and deep, unfathomably beautiful as the sea from which she

  sprung; as he looked at the rushing Aurora of the Rospigliosi, or the

  Assumption of Titian, more bright and glorious than sunshine, or that

  divine Madonna and divine Infant, of Dresden, whose sweet faces must have

  shone upon Raphael out of heaven; his heart sang hymns, as it were,

  before these gracious altars; and, somewhat as he worshipped these

  masterpieces of his art, he admired the beauty of Ethel.

  J. J. felt these things exquisitely after his manner, and enjoyed honest

  Clive's mode of celebration and rapturous fioriture of song; but Ridley's

  natural note was much gentler, and he sang his hymns in plaintive minors.

  Ethel was all that was bright and beautiful but--but she was engaged to

  Lord Kew. The shrewd kind confidant used gently to hint the sad fact to

  the impetuous hero of this piece. The impetuous hero knew this quite

  well. As he was sitting over his painting-board he would break forth

  frequently, after his manner, in which laughter and sentiment were

  mingled, and roar out with all the force of his healthy young lungs----

  "But her heart it is another's, she never--can--be--mine;"

  and then hero and confidant would laugh each at his drawing-table. Miss

  Ethel went between the two gentlemen by the name of Alice Grey.

  Very likely, Night, the Grey Mentor, had given Clive Newcome the benefit

  of his sad counsel. Poor Belsize's agony, and the wretchedness of the

  young lady who shared in the desperate passion, may have set our young

  man a-thinking; and Lord Kew's frankness and courage, and honour, whereof

  Clive had been a witness during the night, touched his heart with a

  generous admiration, and manned him for a trial which he felt was indeed

  severe. He thought of the dear old father ploughing the seas on the way

  to his duty, and was determined, by Heaven's help, to do his own. Only

  three weeks since, when strolling careless about Bonn he had lighted upon

  Ethel and the laughing group of little cousins, he was a boy as they

  were, thinking but of the enjoyment of the day and the sunshine, as

  careless as those children. And now the thoughts and passions which had

  sprung up in a week or two, had given him an experience such as years do

  not always furnish; and our friend was to show, not only that he could

  feel love in his heart, but that he could give proof of courage, and

  self-denial, and honour.

  "Do you remember, J. J.," says he, as boots and breeches went plunging

  into the portmanteau, and with immense energy, he pummels down one upon

  the other, "do you remember" (a dig into the snowy bosom of a dress

  cambric shirt) "my dear old father's only campaign story of his running

  away" (a frightful blow into the ribs of a waistcoat), "running away at

  Asseer-Ghur?"

  "Asseer-What?" says J. J. wondering.

  "The siege of Asseer-Ghur!" says Clive, "fought in the eventful year

  1803: Lieutenant Newcome, who has very neat legs, let me tell you, which

  also he has imparted to his descendants, had put on a new pair of leather

  breeches, for he likes to go handsomely dressed into action. His horse

  was shot, the enemy were upon him, and the governor had to choose between

  death and retreat. I have heard his brother-officers say that my dear old

  father was the bravest man they ever knew, the coolest hand, sir. What do

  you think it was Lieutenant Newcome's duty to do under these

  circumstances? To remain alone as he was, his troop having turned about,

  and to be cut down by the Mahratta horsemen--to perish or to run, sir?"

  "I know which I should have done," says Ridley.

  "Exactly. Lieutenant Newcome adopted that course. His bran-new leather

  breeches were exceedingly tight, and greatly incommoded the rapidity of

  his retreating movement, but he ran away, sir, and afterwards begot your

  obedient servant. That is the history of the battle of Asseer-Ghur."

  "And now for the moral," says J. J., not a little amused.

  "J. J., old boy, this is my battle of Asseer-Ghur. I am off. Dip into the

  money-bag: pay the people: be generous, J. J., but not too prodigal. The

  chambermaid is ugly, yet let her not want for a crown to console her at

  our departure. The waiters have been brisk and servile; reward the slaves

  for their labours. Forget not the humble boots, so shall he bless us when

  we depart. For artists are gentlemen, though Ethel does not think so. De

  --No--God bless her, God bless her," groans out Clive, cramming his two

  fists into his eyes. If Ridley admired him before, he thought none the

  worse of him now. And if any generous young fellow in life reads the

  Fable, which may possibly concern him, let him take a senior's couns
el

  and remember that there are perils in our battle, God help us, from which

  the bravest had best run away.

  Early as the morning yet was, Clive had a visitor, and the door opened to

  let in Lord Kew's honest face. Ridley retreated before it into his own

  den; the appearance of earls scared the modest painter, though he was

  proud and pleased that his Clive should have their company. Lord Kew

  indeed lived in more splendid apartments on the first floor of the hotel,

  Clive and his friend occupying a couple of spacious chambers on the

  second story. "You are an early bird," says Kew. "I got up myself in a

  panic before daylight almost; Jack was making a deuce of a row in his

  room, and fit to blow the door out. I have been coaxing him for this

  hour; I wish we had thought of giving him a dose of laudanum last night;

  if it finished him, poor old boy, it would do him no harm." And then,

  laughing, he gave Clive an account of his interview with Barnes on the

  previous night. "You seem to be packing up to go, too," says Lord Kew,

  with a momentary glance of humour darting from his keen eyes. The weather

  is breaking up here, and if you are going to cross the St. Gothard, as

  the Newcomes told me, the sooner the better. It's bitter cold over the

  mountains in October."

  "Very cold," says Clive, biting his nails.

  "Post or Vett.?" asks my lord.

  "I bought a carriage at Frankfort," says Clive, in an offhand manner.

  "Hulloh!" cries the other, who was perfectly kind, and entirely frank and

  pleasant, and showed no difference in his conversation with men of any

  degree, except perhaps that to his inferiors in station he was a little

  more polite than to his equals; but who would as soon have thought of a

  young artist leaving Baden in a carriage of his own as of his riding away

  on a dragon.

  "I only gave twenty pounds for the carriage; it's a little light thing,

  we are two, a couple of horses carry us and our traps, you know, and we

  can stop where we like. I don't depend upon my profession," Clive added,

  with a blush. "I made three guineas once, and that is the only money I

  ever gained in my life."

  "Of course, my dear fellow, have not I been to your father's house? At

  that pretty ball, and seen no end of fine people there? We are young

  swells. I know that very well. We only paint for pleasure."

  "We are artists, and we intend to paint for money, my lord," says Clive.

  "Will your lordship give me an order?"

  "My lordship serves me right," the other said. "I think, Newcome, as you

  are going, I think you might do some folks here a good turn, though the

  service is rather a disagreeable one. Jack Belsize is not fit to be left

  alone. I can't go away from here just now for reasons of state. Do be a

  good fellow and take him with you. Put the Alps between him and this

  confounded business, and if I can serve you in any way I shall be

  delighted, if you will furnish me with the occasion. Jack does not know

  yet that our amiable Barnes is here. I know how fond you are of him. I

  have heard the story--glass of claret and all. We all love Barnes. How

  that poor Lady Clara can have accepted him the Lord knows. We are

  fearfully and wonderfully made, especially women."

  "Good heavens," Clive broke out, "can it be possible that a young

  creature can have been brought to like such a selfish, insolent coxcomb

  as that, such a cocktail as Barnes Newcome? You know very well, Lord Kew,

  what his life is. There was a poor girl whom he brought out of a Newcome

  factory when he was a boy himself, and might have had a heart one would

  have thought, whom he ill-treated, whom he deserted, and flung out of

  doors without a penny, upon some pretence of her infidelity towards him;

  who came and actually sat down on the steps of Park Lane with a child on

 

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